


Turn to Dust or to Gold

by BlackRoses_OpalEyes



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Supernatural
Genre: (terrified), Alternate Universe, Bela's a bitch, Black Humor, But in the Hunger Games, Castiel is forever alone...and awkward, Castiel's ignorance of human ways, Death, District 13 is out there somewhere, Gabriel and Kali are the ultimate power couple, Jo is pregnant!, Lots of it, More characters to be added as the story goes, Multi, Plus the other three Horsemen, Reapers galore!!!!!, Ruby's betrayal (fuck yeah!), The Angels run the Capitol, Who's The Father?, first fic, lots of angels, no Sabriel or Destiel (thank you Jesus!), sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3463043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackRoses_OpalEyes/pseuds/BlackRoses_OpalEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunger Games AU<br/>God's missing and for the past hundred years the angels amused themselves with the Hunger Games: pitting twenty-six hapless, defenseless humans against twelve powerful angels.<br/>When the twelve angels are named, Joshua didn't intend an undyingly pacifistic archangel and one extremely antisocial angel barely out of training wheels to be among the chosen, but Death had other plans.<br/>Hilarity, drama, death, adventure, and some mild rebellion (who am I kidding?--major rebellion) ensue.</p>
<p>This is my first fic, I am horrible at summaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reaper's Scythe

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!!! I am very happy to have finally joined the Archive of Our Own community. The idea of having another fandom participate in the Hunger Games was first given to me by a OUaT/Hunger Games fic I read a while back, and once I saw The Hammer of the Gods I knew I had to do this (Kali!). I am a very big proponent of Kali/Gabriel, as you shall see later on.  
> For all intents and purposes, unless something changes, this is going to be a slow burn story.  
> This is my first fic of any significance (I've written before on Fanfiction.net, but let's be honest, you guys are way better), and my first attempt at Supernatural.  
> Constructive criticism, advice, etc are all welcome. If anyone becomes interested in beta-ing, let me know.

The Garden, tranquil, placid, and secluded, shivered as Joshua led the pale man through the shrubs. He carried a black leather briefcase locked with Enochian tumbler locks. Gaunt of face and dour of persona, the man set down his briefcase on an ironwork table and thumbed through the tumblers. The case opened with a click and Joshua flinched. The grass around the man's feet turned straw yellow and curled; the lush tropical palms drooped; the gentle creek lost its babble.

"You may sit, my  _friend_." Joshua nearly choked on the last word. His companion looked up from his work and smiled thinly. His eyes were hollow and bore into Joshua's soul.

"You know as well as I, friend, this does not take long." The man pulled out several slips of thick, creamy paper. "Now, if you will be so amiable as to excuse us."

Joshua, eager to separate from his current company, nodded gently and casually fled to the farthest corner of the Garden. It was a place of life and joy. A creature such as that should never be permitted to enter, but Joshua followed God's will and God willed it. One hundred years to the day, yet Joshua failed to warm up to his guest.

For his part, Death found Joshua, truthfully all angels, amusing. They trembled in his presence; Lucifer and Michael were no exception. Raphael, the old soul trapped in a young vessel, he too longed to escape Death's blank gaze. The humans were not worth Death's time. They were greeted by his reapers and brought to the arena by enslaved demigods.  _I get paid either way_ , Death closed his eyes. God had been reluctant at first. They were his creations, all of them, nevertheless he approved Michael and Lucifer's plan. Better to have a controlled atmosphere for his precious angels to recreate than having them run loose across the world slaughtering at will. Twenty six souls. Thirty eight, actually--but the angels didn't die. They never died.

"Contrary to popular belief, I do not have idle time to waste." Death spoke. "Your children are restless. Give them the fight they've been dreaming of since last year." The wind picked up and a luminous light shone behind Death. "Ah, it took you long enough."

 

Gabriel paced. Lucifer, Michael, and Raphael sat at the table planning what weaponry to use in this year's Games. Angel blades are so 2100. Michael threw a foil wrapped chocolate at Gabriel. He caught it with lightning precision.

"Join us, you have good ideas."

"No thanks," Gabriel unwrapped the candy and savored the view before devouring it. "One hundred years and I haven't been on the list yet."

"Is that jealousy, Gabby?" Lucifer's laugh rumbled.

"Well, Luci," Gabriel rested his chin on Lucifer's shoulder. "Dad told us to love them, not kill them."

Raphael clicked his tongue. "Here we go again."

"I don't intend to rain on your parade. It is  _your_ parade, bros, not mine. Catch ya later." Gabriel ruffled Michael's blonde hair and sauntered out of the room.

"So?" Anael stood outside the door, arms akimbo, tapping her foot.

"Jesus, girl!" Gabriel jumped back and knocked Uriel over. "Ever heard of personal space?"

"Who has been chosen?" Uriel glared at Gabriel. He adjusted his tie gruffly and folded his arms.

"I don't know yet!" Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Why, no,  _how_  would I know?"

"He likes you more." Uriel grumbled.

Gabriel abhorred Uriel. The jackass sulked about not being an archangel, about the humans, about Dad's absence, about never getting to participate in the Games, and about pretty much everything. Separating that humorless grizzly bear of an angel from Anael was nigh impossible, not that Gabriel had any great need to be alone with her. She had a certain sweetness and could have been considered beautiful, but she lacked creativity and the cruel irony Gabriel adored. "You'll find out at the Reaping like everybody else." Uriel scowled and lumbered off.

"Balthazar's looking for you." Anael pouted.

"Would you rather he was looking for you?" Gabriel winked and waggled his eyebrows.

"I just want the Reaping to be over and done with. Have you ever been, Gabriel?"

"You know I haven't." Gabriel yawned. This was getting old. At least Balthazar cared more about having a 'ripping good time' than about the damned Reaping.

"The exhilaration rushing through your soul when you smite them... Oh, Gabriel, there is nothing like it." Anael moaned languidly. Her eyelids drooped as though she was caught in a blood drenched trance.

"Okay. Good talk." Gabriel smiled haltingly and scampered off to Balthazar's, hoping he wouldn't encounter Anael or Uriel until the Reaping.

Balthazar's house--mansion is more accurate--glowed and flickered from innumerable strobe lights and disco balls. Raphael often proposed ripping out Balthazar's grace and tossing him from the Capitol, though Michael cooled his puritanical rages and Balthazar remained in the Capitol. Castiel, Samandriel, and Bartholomew were sitting on the front steps. Samandriel was out cold and Bart was in a drunken haze. Castiel, as per usual, was sober and staring at a flagstone in the pavement.

"That fun, huh?" Gabriel shouted and slapped Bart on the back.

"Bastard!" Bart covered his ears and squinted at Gabriel. "What the fuck are you playing at, Gabriel?"

"Teaching you to stay away from the bottle." Gabriel pulled Bart to his feet and steadied him. "After all, you might be reaped tonight, Bart."

"Me?!" Bart laughed. The alcohol on his breath near about knocked Gabriel out. "Even Dad wouldn't be that stupid. A-a-a-and don't you act like you h-h-h-haven't drunk a whole liquor s-s-s-store before."

"Silence." Castiel mumbled.

Gabriel laughed and moved to Samandriel. "You didn't have to poison the kid, though."

"Bah, he needs the tan." Bart tapped the tip of Samandriel's nose. "Poor thing's gonna need a drop of liquid protection if he gets reaped."

"Since when have any of us been in the running?" Gabriel snorted. "Past ninety-nine years: Lucifer, Michael, Raphael, Anael, Zachariah, Naomi, Hester, Gadreel, Constantine, Josiah, Ephraim, and Elijah. You expect it to change now because?"

"Do not argue with him, Gabriel. He is drunk." Castiel's monotone voice made Gabriel snicker.

"No shit, Sherlock." Bart stuttered.

Castiel stood up and grasped Gabriel's shoulder. "Balthazar awaits you."

"Thanks, Cas." Gabriel patted Castiel's awkward hand. "Hey, take care of Samandriel, get him cleaned up for the ceremony." Castiel gathered Samandriel's dozing body in his arms and with a swish of his wings they disappeared.

Balthazar, shockingly sober, lounged on a plush red sofa with a scantily clad woman. He whispered in her ear and she giggled like a Catholic schoolgirl. "You should never be afraid to dream bigger, darling." Gabriel called out. He snapped his fingers and two more women appeared. Balthazar looked up and grinned, a gold tooth showing.

"My dearest archangel." Balthazar clapped his hands and all three women disappeared. "I wonder what the poor people are doing today."

"Undoubtedly wringing their hands over the possibility of their sons and daughters being reaped tonight." Gabriel plopped down next to Balthazar.

"Not as busty as my female visitor," Balthazar eyed Gabriel and frowned. "But I suppose you'll do."

"Save it for tonight, Balthazar." Gabriel rubbed his eyes. He wasn't nervous, he hadn't been nervous since the first year. The angels were guaranteed victory every year. What bothered him were the screaming, pleading, crying prayers he received from the night of the Reaping to the last day of the Games. Ironic, people praying to the things that kill them. "What'd'ya want?"

"Why my sweet Gabriel, your fine companionship is all I desire." Balthazar rose and made his way to the bar. Under a strand of rainbow twinkle lights he poured two shots of vodka and brought the bottle back to the sofa. "That and your charming wit."

"Keep going and I won't be able to contain myself." Gabriel smirked. He and Balthazar intertwined arms and downed their shots.

"Humor me," Balthazar hastily refilled the shot glasses. "If you were to be reaped, what would you do?"

Gabriel guffawed. "First, I'd grab this and never let it go." He snatched the vodka bottle from Balthazar and poured a third shot. "Next, not give a rat's ass about who my two targets are and fall asleep in the arena. I expect both my hangover and the Games will be done by the time I wake up."

Balthazar stopped. "You wouldn't--"

"--kill them?"

"Gabriel."

"Balthazar."

"Do you have any idea--"

"Anything you've got to say I've already thought up. Christ, Bal, it's not like I'm going to be reaped. I don't feel like killing, is that a crime?"

"There are rules, Gabriel." Balthazar yanked the vodka away. His humor had dissolved into tense worry. "Are you seriously willing to lose your grace, to have it ripped from your entity bit by bit and then to be exiled? All to prove a point?" He locked the vodka in the bar and glowered. "Tell me this is just the vodka speaking."

"Three shots? You've seen me take gallons more and still talk sense."

" _Brother_."

"I am going to be fine, Balthazar." Gabriel's mirth drained from his voice. "Look at me. Am I lying? I will not be reaped, I will not be de-angel-ified and be sent to live in District 13. The two of us will be back here tomorrow morning drinking mimosas and banging chicks."

"You are intimidating when you are serious." Balthazar gazed levelly.

"Not sexy?" Gabriel pouted.

"Not at all."

"There's the last time I be serious."

 

Samandriel puked everywhere. Castiel silently cleaned the entire bathroom with Clorox. At least the toilet was sparkling, Samandriel had hit everywhere _but_ the toilet. After changing his clothes, eating some dry toast, and drinking a glass of water, Samandriel apologized for the five thousandth time before dropping to the floor in a coma. Castiel hadn't bothered to move Samandriel. He was fast asleep--he wouldn't notice the difference between a bed and the floor. The bathroom sufficiently scrubbed, Castiel pulled Samandriel's shirt and shorts out of the washing machine and hung them up to dry. His studio apartment was too small for two people. He had not realized this until now.

A _swoosh_ of wings and Gabriel stood in the laundry closet. "Nice flat. Kinda cramped."

"Gabriel." Castiel moved about his business. While heavily drunk, Gabriel and Balthazar once told Castiel he had the perfect 'resting bitch face.' Castiel simply cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, causing the two other angels to screech with giggle-ridden laughter.

"How's the kid?" Gabriel queried. Ten thousand years old and Samandriel never grew up. Castiel cocked a thumb over his shoulder. Gabriel turned around. "Cas, you can't leave him on the floor."

"He's asleep, he won't know the difference." Castiel replied deadpan. Gabriel sighed and dragged Samandriel to the couch, hefting him into a sitting position and crashing next to him. "What did Balthazar wish to know?"

"What I would do if reaped." Gabriel took off Samandriel's baseball cap and played with his hair. One simple wish and Samandriel's locks went from brown to pink to blue to grey to acid green. Gabriel chuckled to himself and put the cap back on. Samandriel with acid green hair: any girl's dream.

"What would you do?" Castiel's deep, flat voice was fit for an interrogation room.

"Y'know, Cas, you could just save time and beat the crap out of me now."

"Why would I--"

"Just an expression." Gabriel cut Castiel off. Gabriel was barely a toddling angel when Castiel was created, yet the Cas couldn't seem to catch up with the times or human culture. Hell, Samandriel was far, far younger and he learned just fine.

"You mean it's none of my business."

"I mean none of us are going to be chosen," reassured Gabriel. "There are millions of angels here, Cas. Millions. Twelve are reaped. If I were to be chosen, or you, or Samandriel, the angels  _always_ win. I would spend more time fretting over the buttload of prayers headed our way tonight."

"You think people still remember the Angel of Saturday?" Castiel asked solemnly. "You think they still go to church or bother to pick up a Bible? We are not their saints and saviors, we are their murderers."

"Way to be a downer, Castiel." Gabriel pinched Castiel's cheek. As he left Castiel's apartment building, Gabriel stumbled on the stairs. No. It was too early. Gabriel kicked the wall and gripped the metal railing. Of course one parent or child would beg for their offspring or sibling to be kept safe from the reapers. Could Gabriel do anything about it? No. Ninety-nine years of no. _  
_

_Save her please,_ the spectral voice spoke a language Gabriel had not heard in centuries, and he knew all tongues spoken by man.

"Would if I could but I can't." Gabriel flippantly burst out. He knew the wretched human wouldn't hear the response. All the better, considering the foul mood this suppliant forced upon him. Castiel was right: nobody went to church anymore, nobody read the Bible, nobody put their faith in God. What did Gabriel owe them if they didn't believe in him?

 

The Capitol's grand plaza, a large amphitheater made entire of glass and sheets of diamond, was packed with millions of angels, most disinterested, some gunning for a fight, and others hoping the ceremony wouldn't take too long this year. The sun bled crimson as it flirtatiously touched the Rocky Mountains to the west. The plaza appeared aptly awash with blood. Joshua and Death stood on the stage next to a spinner containing the names of every angel alive and accounted for. The crowd buzzed with mindless chatter. Lucifer and Michael fulfilled the great honor of lighting the torches surrounding the plaza. The brothers behaved amiably enough, though Lucifer nearly lit Michael on fire. 

Samandriel trembled in his seat. Ten thousand years old. A baby compared to the likes of Gabriel or even Castiel. He dreaded the first of April each year for almost a century. In twenty minutes it would all be over for another three hundred and sixty five days. Bartholomew and Balthazar were joking around, pranking Rachel. She took it goodheartedly when Balthazar changed her clothing with a snap of his fingers. Gone were her sensible jeans and sweater, replaced by a fuzzy, sexy angel costume complete with fluffy wings and halo.

"I could kill Gabriel for teaching you that shit." Rachel laughed merrily. Inias glanced back her and frowned. "Dear God, man can't take a joke. I'd like to see Death's face when I walk up on that stage wearing this."

"Rachel!" Uriel motioned her over to where he, Anael, and Zachariah were seated.

"Catch you later, Bart." Rachel gave Bartholomew's lapels a tug and turned to Balthazar with her arms folded.

"As my diva commands." Balthazar snapped his fingers again. Back to normal, Rachel joined Uriel.

A flash of lightning across the crystal clear sky and a earthshaking rumble of thunder hushed the audience. Gabriel slid in between Castiel and Bartholomew just in the nick of time. The sun dipped lower and disappeared behind the Rockies and the angels waited patiently in perfect stillness. Death released the latch on the spinner and the ball spun. He strode to center stage and raised his arms high: "Let the one hundredth Reaping begin."

Joshua stuck his soft hand inside the spinner and grasped a slip of creamy white paper. He unfolded the paper and it morphed into a small reaper's scythe. The silver blade shone brightly in the twilight.

"Michael." Joshua read the name engraved on the scythe. Gabriel's older brother puffed up with pride and marched to the stage to accept his calling. Lucifer clapped lackadaisically, having hoped to be the first soldier named. Michael accepted his scythe. Joshua shook Michael's hand and smiled widely. Death didn't give Michael a second glance, or a first glance for that matter. Lucifer came next. Then Raphael. Anael. Zachariah. Gadreel. Naomi. Ephraim. Elijah. When Uriel's name appeared on the scythe the angels' applause nearly shattered the glass structure. "A good soldier. An angel who waited his turn and did everything asked of him. God's chosen." Gabriel heard angels around him whisper.

Joshua pulled out the next paper. Brow furrowed, he silently read the name on the scythe and looked up with tired eyes.

"Castiel."

Few angels clapped. Castiel. Castiel? He was mousey, blunt, and socially inept. He had fought, but that was millennia ago and against demons not humans. Gabriel squeezed Castiel's hand and nudged him forward. Castiel walked towards the stage as if trapped in a haze. His feet felt heavy and the glass melted to swallow him up. Climbing the stairs to the stage, a dizzy spell struck Cas and he paused for a moment. Was this real? Surely God did not want him representing the power of Heaven? Castiel made his way over to Joshua and grabbed at the scythe. Joshua offered him a sad look. Castiel ignored it. Gabriel was right, he wouldn't die. The humans were puny and powerless. Powerless. They needed protection. No! Castiel couldn't think about that, he had to think about survival, about following the rules and not getting his grace torn from his soul.

Gabriel watched Castiel onstage and felt a tear come to his eye. Poor Cas. He looked like a lost golden retriever puppy amidst a pack of rabid German shepherds. "He'll be fine, mate, don't worry." Balthazar murmured in Gabriel's ear. He took a flask from his coat pocket, swigged down a gulp, and offered it to Gabriel. Gabriel abstained. He would wait to get drunk tonight with Cas. That would be a sight never seen before: drunken Castiel. The audience held their breath as the final scythe came forth.

"Gabriel."

The world froze. _Gabriel._ The archangel rarely hated his name. The women he conjured often told him it was a beautiful, strong name. Given the current predicament, Gabriel wish he could sell those seven letters to someone else. Anyone else. Hell, Samandriel would be better in the arena than him. The crowd applauded out of nicety--he was an archangel after all. They were as startled as Gabriel. All four archangels in the Games? Somebody needed to run the Capitol while the humans were killed. Said somebody was always Gabriel. Until now. 

_Please save her._ The watery voice came back to haunt Gabriel. Balthazar, Bart, and Samandriel's faces were blank with a hint of sadness and regret. Balthazar slipped his flask into the pocket of Gabriel's leather jacket and patted his rear.

"Go get 'em, tiger." Balthazar muttered.

Gabriel ignored the staring, prying eyes of every living angel in creation watching him as he walked down to the stage. Joshua handed over the scythe. Yep, it was written right there in Enochian: ged, un, pa, don, gon, graph, ur. The scythe's handle scalded Gabriel's hand. Searing white heat pierced his fingers and pounded at his skull. None of the previous soldiers mentioned the burning scythe handles before. Maybe it was a insider, secret society thing. Gabriel took his spot next to Castiel. He knew Michael, Lucifer, and Raphael were watching him like hawks. The blinding heat gave way to a sizzling tingle, a tickling pinch. The spinner halted and Joshua took center stage. This was the beginning of the twenty-four-seven broadcast across Panem of the Games.

"It is my honor to present to the people of Panem the soldiers of the One-Hundredth Hunger Games."


	2. The Tributes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family member in the hospital--sorry for late posting.  
> A cookie for the person(s) who recognize the canon Hunger Games references and the New Yorker reference.  
> Please review or comment--constructive criticism is always appreciated.

The soldiers walked single file off the stage and returned to their respective seats. The back wall of the amphitheater shimmered to life, revealing a large screen. The Reaping of the tributes was almost complete, soon the soldiers would meet their targets.

Balthazar rubbed Gabriel's back. "It's not that bad, mate."

"What part of it is 'not that bad,' Balthazar?" Gabriel hissed. ' _Leave him alone_ ' Bartholomew mouthed to Balthazar and the chipper angel turned away from Gabriel. Gabriel watched Castiel out of the corner of his eye. The blue-eyed angel gawked at the screen, waiting for his orders like a good little soldier.

A newsroom studio flickered on the megalithic TV screen. A handsome gentleman with a red tie and pinstripe suit sat behind the desk. Immaculate, styled hair. Grey blue eyes. A slightly older James Bond. "Good evening, Panem. I am Roger Rhyfel coming to you live from District Two. With the Reapings all concluded across our fair republic, I am happy to announce the tributes of the One Hundredth Hunger Games!"

The angels applauded raucously. Gabriel would have last year, he did last year, and all the years before that. The shoe was on the other foot, now they clapped and cheered for him. He wished Death had been kind and only allotted him two tributes to kill.

"From District Two, allow me to present Lisa Braeden and Matthew Reese." A pretty pair, though the girl looked meek and the boy terrified. They might be nineteen or so.

Gabriel paid no heed to the tributes flashing by. He unscrewed Balthazar's flask and drank the rest of the scotch. His heart was pounding by the time Roger reached District 9: "Joanna Harvelle and Ashton Miles." Joanna was dressed in her Sunday best, her fingers interlaced and resting gently in her lap. Shockingly, she didn't seem to have been crying prior to being thrust onstage, and Gabriel had seen dudes built like wrestlers sobbing their eyes out at the Reaping.

"District Ten: Pamela Barnes and Harry Spangler. District Eleven: Kali Nagarajan and Isaac Ayeke." Roger smiled gleefully like a child hiding a secret everyone knows. "District Twelve has the distinctive honor of reaping four tributes this year: Bela Talbot, Jessica Moore, Samuel Winchester, and Dean Winchester."

Bartholomew poked Gabriel and they exchanged a weary nod. Death was cruel stealing two kids from one family in one Reaping. All twenty-six tributes sat in a crescent behind Roger. They did not speak, they did not move. They simply kept their eyes trained on the camera. The next phase was nearly as unpleasant as the Reaping itself. Roger went tribute to tribute asking them a myriad of questions: what they loved about their district; what weapon they requested to take to the arena; if they had any particular talent that would ensure their survive. It went on interminably until Roger bade the tributes good-night and good-luck. The screen faded away and the back wall became transparent once more.

Joshua gave a curt nod and in an instant most of the angels vanished. Gabriel received some downright murderous glances from several jilted Seraphim and garrison angels. " _Another_ archangel. Don't they know how boring that is? We put up with Lucifer, Michael, and Raphael acting like they own the place, now Gabriel too?"

"Wanna take my place, Ion? Go right ahead." Gabriel tossed the scythe at the angel's feet. Ion wrinkled his nose and disappeared.

"What do we do now?" Castiel suddenly appeared behind Gabriel.

Gabriel flinched. "Cas, you gotta stop doing that.  _We_ don't have to do anything. I was planning on going to Balthazar's, and I know you hate drinking--"

"I'm going to need it tonight." Castiel spoke seriously and darkly. Gabriel would have laughed at his friend's starchy speech and wide, honest eyes, although being laughed at was probably the last thing Castiel needed. Gabriel settled for a pained smile and linked arms with Castiel and Samandriel.

Balthazar's study, devoid of the boisterous glitz swamping the house's other rooms, exuded warmth and peace. Rare artifacts quite literally from biblical times lived out their days in the large glass cabinet against the south wall. Gabriel frequently pressed Balthazar for details regarding the acquisition of such rare, powerful weapons only to be met with a shrug and a "Think I remember?"

With Samandriel on guard duty--nobody wants an uninvited angel crashing their party--Bartholomew attempting to teach Castiel how to drink a refined, aged scotch provided ample amusement.

"No, Cas, don't just knock it back."

"You do it all the time. It makes my throat burn."

"That's because you are guzzling it. Take tiny sips, like this." Bart demonstrated. "God, that's smooth."

"Only the best for my  _amigos_ ," Balthazar proclaimed with a flourish. He focused on Gabriel. "What weapon are you taking to the arena?"

Gabriel mused for a moment, rotating the scotch glass with an idle look. "Potentially an angel blade."

"You don't need those to kill humans." Castiel sipped his drink.

"Do it with flair, Cassie." Gabriel shrugged.

Balthazar smirked. "An angel after my own heart."

Gabriel studied the bookcases filling every available inch of wall. Enochian, Latin, Greek, Old Church Slavonic, and Aramaic. Balthazar had it all. "Never took you for the reading type."

"I'm not--they absorb quite a bit of sound, if you catch my drift."

"Why did I ever teach you trickster magic?" Gabriel winced and made a note to never touch the desk. "I'm curious, Bal. Are we allowed to take heavenly weapons?"

"Such as?" Balthazar followed Gabriel's lazy gaze to the treasure trove of heavenly weapons in the curio cabinet.

"Say... I dunno, Lot's Salt?"

"Gabriel." Balthazar lowered his voice. Thankfully Castiel and Bartholomew were preoccupied with Castiel's scythe. "That's overkill."

"I thought you loved flamboyance."

"Cruelty towards innocents isn't your style, _bro_." Balthazar's droll British accent sneered at the last word.

"Did you see the way Michael, Luci, and Raphy looked at me?" Words flew from Gabriel's mouth like pigeons from a cut pie. "People have more faith in Castiel than me."

"I am more loyal." Castiel interjected. Bartholomew snickered. One look from Gabriel and Bart covered his lips.

"To whom, Cas? My brothers or Dad?" 

"Alrighty, boys, testosterone contest is over." Balthazar stepped between the two angels. "Let's chalk it up to Cas having too much scotch and Gabriel having a stick up his arse."

"I had three glasses." Castiel cocked an eyebrow. "Come to think of it, this isn't terrible. May I have another?"

"Right, boyo. Lemme take you home."

"I'm fine." Castiel waved Balthazar off.

"Don't need you crashing into any buildings." Balthazar put his hands on Castiel's shoulders. "Samandriel!" The spry kid promptly appeared. "Take Cas home. He flies and he's liable to crash. Wouldn't want a disgraced soldier on our hands now would we?"

Samandriel took Castiel by the shoulder and led him out of the study. "I shall see you on the morrow, Gabriel." Castiel slurred over his shoulder.

Gabriel waved acknowledgement and unfurled his wings, preparing to leave.

"Hold it, cowboy." Balthazar folded Gabriel's first pair of golden wings against his back. "I know you better than Joshua, better than Cas, better than your own brothers."

"Bal, I am not going to do anything crazy. I promise you." Gabriel retracted his wings. "You think I'd risk eternal damnation in District 13 over two lousy humans? They don't even worship anymore. I doubt anybody alive tells the tales of those good, ol', Canaan days."

Balthazar frowned and searched Gabriel's face. "As you say. Get one thing straight: you fuck up and I am not taking the fall with you. Keep Castiel out of it too, he has enough problems as it is. Damn near drunk my whole collection of craig."

Gabriel sighed. " _You_ got anything you want to add?" His gold eyes flicked to Bart.

"Good luck?" Bart shyly offered.

"Piss off."

 

The waiting chamber was glorious. It may have been an old, glamorous theater from the Gilded Age, except instead of seating and a stage there were sofas and a screen replaying the events of the day. The twenty-six Tributes clumped in twelve groups, afraid to speak to those outside of their district. A dark haired girl from District Five broke the ice. "I'm Dorothy, Dorothy Baum. District Five." She introduced herself. Her voice echoed loudly in the petrified room. Nobody answered. "And this is Ed." She yanked her male counterpart to her side.

Imaginary crickets chirped. "Oh for fuck's sake!" Dorothy put her hands on her hips. "You expect us to have a fighting chance if we don't know each other?"

"You think we have a fighting chance? That's rich." Isaac Ayeke, District Eleven, laughed sardonically. "Real cute."

"Okay, I know who I'm throwing to the angels first." Dorothy stroked her chin in mock thought.

"What kind of idiot are you?" Buxom Pamela Barnes, District Ten, sneered. "We don't have to betray each other, they find us as soon as the bell sounds. Ever watched the Games?"

"No, I try to not think about how every year I might be sentenced to death by God's chosen." Dorothy pursed her lips. Ed inched away from Dorothy, detecting her stance was not popular opinion. "I do think about what I would do if chosen. Anyone here know how to kill an angel?"

"They can die?" Jessica Moore, beautiful and blonde, piped up.

"Anything can die. You saw those reapers, nothing can escape them." Dorothy fired back. "We have twelve hours before we go to the Capitol for preparations, might as well put it to good use."

Jo Harvelle exchanged a glance with Ash Miles and stood up. "My dad said something to me about an angel blade. He said the angels used them during the civil war when they subdued Lucifer before Panem existed."

"My, my, you aren't just another pretty face, are ya?" Pamela flashed a dark smile.

"Ignore her," Sam Winchester stepped forward. "Did your dad say anything else?"

Jo gave Sam a grateful nod and continued, "The blades and holy oil are the only things that can completely kill an angel--"

"Finding a priest to bless some oil is gonna be a cakewalk, thanks Barbie." Sam's brother Dean grunted.

Jo disregarded Dean. "There's a seal we can draw to remove the angels."

"Remove?" Pamela laughed.

"Dad said they just disappear with a scream and a flash of light, but it won't kill them."

"We're like matadors poking bulls?" A South Asian girl from District Eleven scoffed.

"It might stall them." Dorothy added. She liked Jo Harvelle. The girl was smarter than she looked and she wasn't afraid to fight. "Anything else?"

"Their vessels, we can destroy them."

"Vessels?" The Asian girl stood at the edge of the circle, head cocked.

"Who are you, princess?" Dean eyed the girl lasciviously.

"Kali Nagarajan. How 'bout you, bitch? Named after a gun? I bet your girlfriend finds that rather impressive." Kali's stony expression made Jo and Dorothy smirk.

"Now you listen here you--"

"Vessels!" Ash interjected. He stepped between Kali and Dean and pushed them apart. "Tell them about the vessels, Jo."

"Think of a vessel like a hermit crab's shell. It can leave it at any time, but it is its home and its protection. Angels can only inhabit certain, very specific vessels. Sometimes they might have only one throughout all of history. Others have multiple vessels. Either way, if we somehow destroy their bodies, they might not be able to come back." Jo tucked back a loose curl.

"In physical form?" Dorothy clarified.

"Right." Jo sighed.

"Can we ask for an angel blade as our weapon of choice?" The fourth tribute of District Twelve, Bela, inquired. Jo mused whether Bela's accent was fake or not, probably was given her Euro trash getup.

"Yeah, no."

"Then how do we stabby stab?" Dismay clouded Isaac's eyes.

"Hope and pray one of the angels brings one." Ash clapped Isaac on the back.

Kali, stock still and unblinking, let the burning water pelt her shoulders. After the four-hour meet 'n' greet with twenty-five other tributes, all she desired was sleep. In her own bed. The escorts had different plans. They sent the tributes to wash up for the 'big day tomorrow.' Nothing says teamwork like a row of communal showers separated by flimsy plastic sheets. Kali inched her head under the shower head, the searing heat flowed across her scalp and drowned her eyes. District Eleven. Her parents smothered her with kisses and rib-crushing embraces before she boarded the train bound for District Two. Her mother pressed a silver chain into Kali's hand and whispered, "I forgive you,  _janemana_ ," as the district escort, Eustace Tilley, yanked Kali away.

 _I forgive you._ Kali scowled at the rivulets of water skirting her feet to find the drain. Her mother, kind, loving, and caring, refused to entertain the possibility of her daughter winning the Hunger Games. _Hang yourself with a chain, really supportive and inspirational. Thanks, Mom!_ Kali lathered her hair and scratched her scalp persistently.

"Lice?"

Kali turned around. Pamela smirked and studied Kali's naked body; she tsked in disapproval. "Fuck off, Ten." Kali returned to her shower. She turned up the heat and cleared her mind. From observing previous Games, Kali knew this might very well be the last hot shower in her lifetime, unless the arena was a steamy tropical rainforest.  _Don't go giving them ideas, Kali Lalita._

The gender based dorms split the tributes, with six in one room and seven in the other. Kali, luckily, roomed with Jo, Dorothy, Jessica, Tamara Umana, District Four, and Charlie Bradbury, District Three. The six women immediately crowded around Jo's bed to plan their survival scheme. Jo laughingly joked her upbringing as a harvester's daughter improved their chances.

"Do you know how to handle a sickle?" Tamara demanded. Jo nodded eagerly. "Alrighty then, you are useful, Jo. What about you, Charlie?"

"District Three born and raised. Give me a piece of metal and I'll build you a wonder." Charlie twirled her vermillion hair.

"I know how to use a gun..." Jess offered shyly. "Not well, though."

"You have more talent than me." Kali hung her head. The five girls leaned in. "I used to live in District Four. My parents are doctors and the Capitol 'relocated' them to District Eleven five years ago. I wasn't old enough to learn anything in District Four and I have special exemption from working in District Eleven."

"Damn shame they reaped you." Tamara blurted out. "At least I can weave fishing nets for days."

"Tamara!" Jess put a gentle hand on Kali's forearm.

"No, Jess, she's right." Kali squeezed the tribute's hand congenially.

"Your parents are doctors, surely you must know something." Dorothy, ever the pragmatist, sat cross legged.

"I doubt the arena's going to have a full hospital station." Kali smiled ruefully.

"True." Dorothy shrugged. "Anyhow, I trained to be a career, volunteered when my little sister got reaped."

"A career from District Five? I feel honored." Charlie flashed a sardonic smile.

"If we win, we are free for life. Can you imagine that, Charlie?" Dorothy leaned back and sighed contently.

"First we have to win." Jo brought Dorothy to reality. "There can't be twenty more people in this group if we want to survive."

"Are you saying we play favorites?" Tamara inquired incredulously.

"I'm saying we wait until the training center and the rankings to see who are worthy allies." Jo put her hands up.

Kali's shoulders slumped. "What the hell am I going to do?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something, dearie." Charlie rubbed Kali's back.

The train ride from District Two to the Capitol was short, but Eustace Tilley spent every minute of it coaching Kali and Isaac's behavior. Their mentors, Chaff and Seeder, watched in amusement as Eustace repeatedly corrected Isaac's 'utensil-grasping technique' as Eustace called it. Seeder, a gracefully aging beauty, turned to Kali.

"Kali." Seeder mulled over the word. "Not one of our folk."

"No, ma'am." Kali met Seeder's golden irises.

"Daughter of those District Four doctors?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You learned your Southern pleasantries, certainly that can be said." Seeder's drawl lulled Kali into a false sense of security. She was the kindly grandmother Kali never knew. "Tell me, child, what can you do?"

"Ma'am?"

"To impress the judges." Seeder's sticky, syrupy accent turned from light honey to thick molasses. Kali felt stuck, trapped. Chaff and Isaac were listening by now. "Can you wield a knife? A sickle? Maybe a pair of pruning shears? An axe? Anything to defend yourself?" Kali's jaw hung stupidly. "Your pretty face isn't gonna do you much good in the training center or the arena. I may not have set foot in that lethal death pit, but I've watched enough Games in my time on this earth to know that those angels are vicious, vindictive, heartless beings. They don't stop and they don't rain pity."

"I--I know what I can and can't eat, fish or fruit." Kali scrambled to come up with something. Why focus on her? Give Isaac some attention, he's the one with the talents.

"Pointing out poisonous mushrooms won't impress a judge." Chaff interjected.

"What do you want from me?" Kali shouted. The cap sealing her proverbial boiler had sprung. "Are you trying to make me feel like dirt because I never worked a day in my life? If so you are doing a bang-up job." Kali stormed out of the dinner car and into the lounge. She locked the door and sat down on a chaise lounge and rubbed her temples.

A tentative rap on the door's glass porthole. "Kali? Come now, darling, this is rather rash. Let me in."

Eustace. Kali groaned and unlocked the door. Eustace burst into the compartment, a flurry of spring. His curly tangerine hair poked out in the space between his ridiculously extravagant top hat and his high, Victorian collar. His blue glass monocle hiding in his breast coat pocket, waiting to spring on an unsuspecting tribute mispronouncing 'aunt' as 'ant.' The man's every fiber exuded idiotic impracticality in a manner that only a Capitol dweller could.

"My dearest Kali," Eustace pulled Kali into a stifling embrace. His stiff, starched clothing smelled like a stale vat of vanilla and sugar, a sickening combination. "You and I are one in the same: out of place in our districts, meant for higher things--"

"I can't breathe." Kali squeaked. The train screeched to a stop. Inertia knocked Kali from Eustace's powdered pink hands. Eustace straightened his long, tailed dinner jacket and pulled on a pair of white satin gloves.

"After you, Miss Nagarajan."

Kali avoided the eyes of her fellow District Eleven companions. The sooner Eustace disposed of Kali and Isaac to their stylists the better. Escorts left the magnificent steel and glass train station with their tributes in tow. Small groups of angels and the human citizens of the District One suburbs cluttered the sidewalks from the station to the training center. The meager crowd increased the closer the tributes got to the training center. The angels were trading comments in some strange sounding language none of the tributes had heard before. The District One citizens cheered and shouted congratulations and well wishes.

The training center loomed massive and ominous. It pieced the sky and seemed to scrape the lowest clouds. Once inside, twenty four stylists descended upon the tributes, each wore the seal of their tribute's district emblazoned on their ethereal garments. Kali's stylist was a handsome young man from District One named Kovia; Isaac's was an equally attractive woman from District Eight, Minette.

"Do your best!" Eustace Tilley shouted in the most gentlemanly manner as Minette and Kovia took his tributes away. The two stylists rolled their eyes. Minette had styled in the last five Hunger Games and Kovia studied under the prestigious Cinna. All they had to wrap these two tributes together and tie them off with a velvety bow. Easy.

"Kali?" Kovia's deep voice filled the prep room. Three assistants mixed a gooey looking substance in a large bowl. "This is Corsice, Bea, and Rasmus." Bea waved an energetic, perfectly manicured hand, Rasmus offered a warm smile, and Corsice gave a reassuring nod. "I must consult with Minette and then I shall return. Do not fret, I leave you in capable hands." Kovia turned to his team: "You know the drill."

The prep team undressed Kali, helped her hop on a comfortable gurney, and began the construction of their masterpiece. Corsice ooh-ed and aah-ed over the intricate henna dotting Kali's torso and legs. Corsice set to work waxing off every strand of Kali's body hair. Rasmus guided Kali's head into a washing bowl and exfoliated her hair. The combined efforts of Corsice and Rasmus seared Kali's skin. She focused on memories of cold. Harsh winters in District Four. Strange ice storms in District Eleven. Frigid bathwater in January. A few initial flinches, one scream of pain, and a multitude of red skin later and Kali was hair free. Rasmus massaged Kali's head and conditioned her hair before proclaiming it fit to be styled. Bea labored painlessly filing and polishing Kali's nails. Rasmus twisted Kali's drenched locks into a bun atop her head. He gave her a sympathetic eye.

"This is going to feel strange." Rasmus poured scented oil over Kali's body and massaged it into her supple skin. "The aloe will stop any irritation from the wax."

"This isn't so ba--OW JESUS!" Kali jolted. Bea scraped off the oil with a rough sickle. A layer of dried skin peeled away with the oil.

"The price of beauty." Corsice commiserated.

Having scraped Kali within an inch of her life, the prep team buffed her entire body like she was an exquisite piece of furniture. Her olive skin shown like polished brown marble. Kovia returned and examined Kali, touching, squeezing, and moving her body. He paused for a moment and contemplated her serene form. "Leave us." He ordered the prep team without a single glance.

"Did you and Minette come to an agreement?" Kali kept her eyes trained on some speck of dust floating through the air.

"District Eleven. I suppose the banana skirt and coconut shell bra used last year aren't deserving of a reprise." Kovia glided back and forth. "Nor would I want you running around naked for the parade--previous years have seen enough of that. Damn District Twelve."

"Kovia." Kali breathed.

"Yes, _sahib_?" Kovia's eyes twinkled.

"Please."

"I tease, forgive me." Kovia grasped Kali's hand. "Minette and I have been working on your parade costumes since the Gamemakers assigned us District Eleven. Worry you not, Kali Nagarajan, you will be stunning."

Kovia blindfolded Kali while he and Rasmus styled her hair. She could feel Corsice squeezing paste on her skin. More henna? Bea lacquered Kali's nails. The team's chatter eased Kali's fraying nerves. She could be dead in four days. Bea and Kovia went on about how she must see the Cathedral of Eden and Ossuary of Job before departing for the arena.

"Built from a soda can." Kovia laughed.

"What?" Kali strained against Rasmus's satanic hair brushing.

"One of the angels knows magic," Corsice explained. "He can turn nothing into something. Quite good at it too. Fun to drink with."

"He built it out of a soda can?"

"Don't listen to Kovia." Bea chastised her teammates. Pangs of sympathy ached her heart. Her younger brother had been reaped last year. She knew the terror, the panic, the adrenaline pumping through Kali's veins. "It is a feat of architecture, a true marvel, of that there is no doubt."

Hair styled and henna dried, Kovia covered Kali's eyes as the prep team lowered the costume over her head. The outfit held snug to Kali's frame and seemed lighter than air. "Open." Kovia's hand flew back. Kali blinked, unsure of reality.

She started from the top. Her ebony hair was coiled back in an intricate braid interlaced with fragrant apple, lime, and orange blossoms. A pale, sunshine corona of whimsical lemon buds hovered at the back of her head above where the braid tucked into a loose bun. A single crimson jewel in the shape of a pomegranate seed had been placed like a bindi between Kali's eyebrows. Corsice had used white and blue henna to create the illusion of intricate lace across Kali's collarbone, cleavage, and back. The dress clung to her breasts and drifted gently down the length of her body. Leaves. Thousands of leaves. Orange, gold, red, purple. The leaves of autumn. Covered with a gentle sheen of frost. The leaves intertwined in such a way that Corsice's henna designs burst through, little chains of blue and white frost underneath a rustling pile of leaves. Kovia had cut the front of the dress mid-shin, to show off Kali's icy high heels, and the back of the dress pooled on the floor behind her like October's raked leaves. Kali admired her heels.

"Cinderella would be jealous, Kovia." Kali clasped her heart. "What am I?"

"Autumn and winter." Minette stood in the doorway. "As Isaac is spring and summer."

Isaac's naked torso and arms were tattooed with henna vines and huge tropical flowers. He wore a skirt similar to Kali's dress, only it was vibrant greens and dusky yellows, the colors of the orchards in spring. His head was crowned with the flowers of summer: plums, peaches, apricots, and mangos. He wore sandals of woven grasses found only in District Eleven. Minette had lightly drawn two thick lines on Isaac's cheeks. War paint.

"Ten minutes!" Eustace's shrill voice called from outside the room.

Kali looked at Kovia, a tinge of fear in her dark eyes.

"Hey, you let four strangers examine your fully naked body, you can let millions see you fully _clothed_." Kovia grinned. Kali shrugged her shoulders with a forced snigger. Kovia took Kali by the shoulders and whispered softly in her ear. "You will be perfect, dear queen of winter."

Kovia, Minette, and the two prep teams waved ecstatic good-byes and shouted praises and encouragement as Kali took Isaac's open hand and the two strode towards the door.

 _I am winter,_ Kali stepped into the chariot and took Isaac's hand once more. He gave her hand a friendly squeeze and they looked into each other's eyes as their chariot pulled out.  _And I shall freeze the Capitol._


	3. A Brush With Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy April Fool's Day!

Castiel's oceanic eyes softened with each passing tribute. He knew the pair from District One vaguely, he had seen them before walking around the Capitol during past holy days. Death must have found it amusing to pick two women as the tributes-- _"Something spicy for the fourth Quarter Quell."_  Meg Masters and Ruby Schaeffer. They were decked in glittering gems from head to toe. Ruby in blood red rubies, naturally, and Meg in sky blue sapphires. He wondered if he would kill them. He and the rest of the Lord's soldiers were seated together in a block, not that the tributes would notice. Tributes can rarely afford the luxury of knowing their pursuer.

"Tasteless tripe." Balthazar snagged the seat beside Castiel and Gabriel. "Can't compare to Vegas."

"Vegas? More like Claudius's  _naumachia_." Castiel grunted. Balthazar and Gabriel exchanged grins. "What? I wasn't completely ignorant of Earth's happenings prior to the Apocalypse."

"Picturing you at Claudius's parties is rather endearing, Cass," chortled Balthazar. "Gosh and golly, would'ja look at District Two!" The tributes morphed into marble statues of Greece and Roman's antique past. Their stylists clothed them in skintight bodysuits spray painted like polished white marble. Their limbs practically gleamed in the sun.

"Speak of the devil." Gabriel quipped.

District Three's tributes wore fitted gossamer, ethereal and disturbingly holographic. District Four--Stunningly beautiful in shimmering, iridescent fish scales. District Five showcased shirts and leggings cracking with electricity. Two miniature Tesla coils. Castiel briefly mused how the stylists achieved such hazardous results; in the Capitol, anything goes. District Six's tributes were sleek, smartly dressed train attendants--"transportation" didn't give the stylists much to work with. District Seven, lumberjacks. Neither tribute looked particularly thrilled as they forced pained smiles. District Eight outdid itself once again: the girl's ball gown styled after an early 2000s' dress, the boy's suit sharply cut and dashing. They did not match but they easily defeated the previous districts. District Nine, grain farmers. Nothing special or exciting. District Ten's female tribute might as well have been naked. Obviously the stylists cared more about garnering support for her than presenting the pair as a duo. Castiel shut his eyes and shook his head.

"Black leather, hah, nothing like it!" Gabriel nudged Balthazar. "I mean, _Jésus, María, y José_!"

District Eleven. The girl was unlike any female tribute from the district even seen. Not to say she was prettier or more refined, just oddly different than her male counterpart. The memory of that prayer briefly flashed before Gabriel's mind. Hindi? Punjabi? He couldn't recall. "District Eleven: Isaac Ayeke and Kali Nagarajan." The name hit Gabriel like an eighteen wheeler and totaled his psyche.  _Kali_. Why had he not seen it before? It couldn't be. Not now. No, it was impossible, illogical, and completely unlikely.  _Jesus, Gabriel, more than one woman can have the name Kali._ At least her outfit was phenomenal and the crowd certainly adored her and her partner. _  
_

"Don't make me do this, Dad." Gabriel whispered to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing, Cass."

District Twelve entered and loud cheers greeted the four tributes. District Twelve had nothing extraordinary to offer. Four tributes dressed as the four colors found in coal flames: yellow, white, blue, and faint orange. Cinna's retirement the year before signaled the death of District Twelve's grand era. The man could transform any ratty, scarred, coal stained kid to a national star with a touch of his magic sewing machine. The quartet were bound to attract sponsors. The girls were pretty and winsome, appealing to brunette lovers and blonde fanatics, and the boys were brothers, a pity case for those sympathetic few who took the family's cruel loss into account.

"Gabriel, up for seeing the training sessions?" Castiel stood up stiffly. Gabriel politely declined and disappeared with a flutter. Castiel tugged on Balthazar's cuff. "What's up with him?"

"Gaby?" Balthazar shrugged. "What's the point of hanging around for three days watching the calves fatten? You know how long he lived with humans, Cass, almost as long as he's lived with us."

"I know, but it's his duty whether he likes it or not." Castiel reasoned.

"Oh, he bloody well hates it." Balthazar smirked. "Y'see my sweet angel of Saturday--"

"Thursday."

"Nuances. Our four oldest brothers all have their niches and Gabriel is the baby and with that comes slews of nasty attributes. God help him."

Castiel coldly retorted, "God isn't listening."

 

The training center was pristine, sterile, and austere. Only Dorothy and the District One tributes comfortably asserted their presence. Boldly, Dorothy beelined to the firearms. Jess shyly followed her. Charlie and Ash gravitated toward the traps and snares. Pamela yanked the Winchester brothers over to camouflage and offered to act as their easel. Bela Talbot glowered, jealous of Pamela's seductive aura. Isaac abandoned Kali to check out spears and axes with Tamara.

"We'll talk later," Isaac promised.

Kali huffed. She didn't want to appear weak--the angels could be invisible, watching them--but she didn't want to crowd her fellow tributes. She spied Eustace Tilley amongst the other escorts and sauntered up to him.

"Gorgeous, Kali, simply gorgeous!" Eustace bestowed two puckered kisses on Kali's cheeks. "I couldn't have asked for better. The crowd ate you and Isaac up. You should have heard what they were saying! And not just District One's citizens, angels too!"

"Fantastic, Eustace." Kali offered a smile. Eustace beamed. "Kovia and the others told me I had to visit some church and I'd rather do it today if you don't mind."

"What about training?" Eustace's joyous countenance faltered. He planned for Isaac and Kali to work together for the next three days and today also.

"I won't be long," assured Kali.

"You will need a chaperone." Eustance cleared his throat with a high-pitched ahem.

"I'll take care of that, Eustace." Kovia materialized from a throng of escorts.

Kali gave Kovia a genuine, grateful smile and they departed without further ado. Kovia guided Kali through backstreets and secret passages, narrow alleys and a complex, tangled elevated train system. He pierced her concrete bank of secrets with his trident of sincerity, kindness, and affability. He spilled few of his own dark secrets. Wakovia Simmons, born and raised in District One. Apprentice of the legendary Cinna. Acquaintance to a plethora of angels. "Even God's creatures clothe themselves." Kovia smirked. The gentle inertia of the train bumped them together. "In the Capitol, in Panem, you will find no one better than I."

"Would you like a slice of humble pie, Kovia? It's pretty tasty." Kali rolled her eyes.

"No, thank you."

"No really I make the best."

Kovia chuckled. A shame. Losing such a lovely young woman. He prayed, no, hoped the soldier hunting Kali would remember mercy and kindness in their method of execution. "Made any alliances yet?"

"Perhaps." Kali shrugged. "I can't do much. Charm the angels with my stellar looks?"

"Worth a shot." Kovia patted Kali's hand. "Steer clear of Meg Masters."

"Friend of yours?"

He ignored the query. "Ruby's not a known traitor."

_That answers that._

The cathedral's belfries and spires loomed large over the ultramodern glass and metal construction below. Five minutes. Few people wandered the streets circling the cathedral, most stayed in their homes, eager for the televised coverage of the parade and early reports from the training center. The Cathedral of Eden. Hundreds of thousands of stone blocks. Statues tucked in nooks and crannies dotted the exterior. Jesus took the spot of prominence high in the juncture between the two belfries. Two angels, stiff, unblinking, blank, guarded the entrance. Kali and Kovia walked under their crossed halberds. Like a bloodhound catching the scent of a criminal, the angels sniffed.

Kali's eyes adjusted to the dark interior. Kovia swiftly dipped his fingers in a basin of water and crossed himself. Kali tentatively mimicked. Her parents didn't practice much, but they stashed old, crumbing Hindu idols from when her great-grandparents immigrated to Panem-- _no_ \--America. Her father feared displaying the worn statues.  _One nation, under God._ _Singular, not plural_. Kali remembered. The nave's vaulted ceiling touched the sky and innumerable stain glass windows splashed vibrant colors across the stark white walls. Small apses and alters broke off in every which way. There was an octagonal room Kovia called the chapter house, a gorgeous wood paneled dream, warm and cozy. The click of heels echoed, magnified. Kali saw a pale, gaunt man in a dark suit delving down a round staircase behind an altar to the Virgin Mary. Kovia chatted with Elisha, the angel presiding over the sanctuary.

"The staircase--" Kali motioned.

"The ossuary." Elisha answered. "You may see it, if you so wish. Shall I accompany you? It can be... startling for those unprepared."

"Thank you, sir, I'll be fine." Kali gave a small, grateful bow. She mentally slapped herself. These were angels, not kings or queens. They ruled Panem, yet they never demanded servile behavior. _Only a yearly human sacrifice._  

Kali's boots clacked against the smooth stone steps. A hundred years of millions of feet treading the same path had worn a round divot in the center of each step. Arms stretched on either side for balance, Kali slipped on the last step and hit her rear. "God." Kali muttered, rubbing her bruised posterior. Kali lifted her gaze and leaned against the curved wall. Skulls. Hundreds upon thousands of human craniums. Neatly stacked. Mossy flagstones dusted with loose, dark soil. Wrought iron lanterns hung from spinal cords. An endless maze of human remains. Chalk white. Polished. Empty eye sockets. Grinning teeth.

"Wondering where they got them all?"

Kali squeaked, whirled around. Tall, gaunt, pale. Stately, kempt, shrewd. "Did I startle you?" He said it like a statement rather than a question.

"I'm sorry." Kali retreated. "I'll leave you be."

"Don't run on my account." The man in black smoothed his lapels. "This your first visit to the Ossuary of Job."

"It shows." Kali laughed meekly.

The man smiled eerily. "Allow me." He beckoned Kali onward and guided her through the knotted twists and turns of the ossuary.

Saints' relics dotted the pathway. Important figures received their own chamber and altar, or so the man told her. Chandeliers of bone. Ribs, jaws, legs. Delving deeper into the catacombs below the main ossuary, rows upon rows of skeletons were carefully laid out on elevated altars, ten to fifteen feet apart from each other. Plaques with foreign letters rested at the feet of each set of remains. Kali's escort pulled her in an arc around the delicate inlaid marble flooring. White marble, inlaid obsidian in the shape of wings.

"True craftsmanship." Kali commented. He raised an eyebrow. "The wings."

"These are angels," he slowly explained. "Have you ever seen an angel die?"

"Angels don't die." Kali shook her head.

"Die, killed, what is the difference? Wings seared to ash, permanently staining the ground wherever their body is laid to rest."

Invisible centipedes crawled up and down Kali's back. "Where do angels go when they die?"

He smiled enigmatically and walked to the next room. Kali gave the bare skeletons a final, sorrowful glance. The chamber contained twenty bodies; angels may die, but not too often.

 

The hazy, hallucinogenic world of dreams disoriented Gabriel. Long black gown. Burqa. Lace-veiled eyes. A respectable distance between the two of them.

"Look, lady, I'm sleeping." Gabriel rubbed his eyes.

"I beg of you, help me." She ran to him and grasped his hands in hers.

"Um..."

"Please!" She whined. Pleading promises of eternal worship, eternal gratitude, an inheritance to be delivered unto him.

"Okay, fine." Gabriel shouted. Anything to purge this smoky dream. Where was he? The chapter house? No, the small alcove dedicated to him. Forty-some candles, none lit, below a statue. Six wings. "What do you want?"

"Promise me on your grace, bring an angel blade to the arena."

"Why?"

"Promise!" Her screeching resumed. She fell to his feet and wrapped her clothed arms around his legs.

"Okay, Jesus!" Gabriel shook her off.  _That settles it, no more Prosecco._

"Thank you." She kissed him on the lips. For a split second, Gabriel could have sworn her eyes were black as tar.


End file.
